Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  “Good! Yes!” Meadow flung an impatient hand out to indicate him. “Hang around and be exhibit A, the lonely, miserable old man Devlin is going to shrivel up and become.”

  Bradley’s smile vanished, and his military posture became stiff and offended. “I am not lonely.”

  “Just miserable. You want to stay here and gloat over our troubles, because then you can go home to your lonely dinner with its place setting for one, and you can smoke your stinking cigars and no one will complain, and you can die alone and no one will discover you until the other tie-wearing old men notice that, for the third day in a row, you’re not at lunch. And, of course, your funeral will be attended by all the right people, but who’s going to cry, Bradley?” Meadow’s voice shook with conviction. “Who is going to mourn?”

  “Meadow.” Devlin touched her arm. Later she would be ashamed of the things she’d said.

  But not yet.

  She jerked away. “Devlin is right. Someone will notice you’re MIA before you’ve been dead for three days, because your little buddy H. Edwin Osgood sticks close, because somehow he gets his sense of importance from you.”

  “Well, really!” Osgood’s lisp and his indignation were pronounced.

  “Now I am going to call my mother”—Meadow flipped open her cell phone—“and tell her I’m coming home today. Because she loves me”—her voice thickened with tears—“just because I’m me.”

  She dialed the number and walked out of the room.

  An uncomfortable silence fell.

  Devlin looked at the other three.

  They looked at him.

  And he knew Meadow was right.

  He was like his mother—stiff, uneasy with affection, and unschooled in love. He did see everything in terms of winning and losing, but that didn’t work with Meadow. Because it didn’t matter if he held the power in their relationship—if he didn’t have Meadow, he had lost everything.

  He started out of the room after her.

  “Are you going to crawl after that girl?” Bradley Benjamin couldn’t have sounded more masculine and more offended.

  Devlin stopped and looked back at him. At exhibit A.

  Meadow was right. If he didn’t stop worrying he would turn into his father, and brooding about the abuses of his childhood, and worrying that someone somehow would take advantage of him right now, he would become Bradley Benjamin, a man without real friends, a man without a family . . . a man without his love.

  By God, Devlin was not going to replay Bradley’s mistakes. “Am I going to crawl after that girl? On my belly.” He turned to walk after Meadow.

  “True love triumths,” Osgood lisped.

  “Shut up, Hop,” Bradley said.

  Devlin stopped in midstride. He turned to face the two old men. “Hop?”

  “Hop. It’s his old nickname. Hopkins. H. Edwin Osgood.” Bradley sounded impatient, as if that were a fact everyone knew.

  And maybe at some point Devlin had known it, but until last night when he heard Four’s story about a behind-the-scenes murderer, Osgood’s real name had meant nothing.

  Of course, it could be a coincidence—but Devlin didn’t believe in coincidence. He focused on Osgood. On his glasses, his dyed hair, his bow tie. Was it possible? Could it all be a disguise?

  Osgood came to his feet. As Devlin watched, the foolish, womanizing, Bradley-butt-kissing sycophant faded from view, leaving an old guy with sharp brown eyes that observed him coolly.

  Like gunfighters, Osgood and Devlin squared off.

  “You never have trouble with money.” Devlin spoke slowly as he thought the matter through. “You’re in a good position to know everything that goes on here. You live alone in your mansion . . . do you collect art, Mr. Hopkins?”

  Grace moved closer to Bradley. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  Bradley looked from one to the other. His gaze lingered on Osgood. “No. What is it you think he’s guilty of, Devlin?”

  Both Devlin and Osgood ignored him.

  Osgood inclined his head. “I have interests in a lot of fields, Mr. Fitzwilliam.” He didn’t lisp at all. In fact, his voice sounded completely different than Devlin had ever heard it.

  “I’ll just bet you do.” This old fart had been searching the hotel for Isabelle’s painting. This crony of Bradley Benjamin’s had threatened to kill Bradley’s only son, Four. This man whom no one really knew had ordered someone to hit Meadow and push her down the stairs. Devlin took one big step toward Osgood, wrapped his hands around that prissy bow tie, and lifted him up on his toes. “I ought to kill you.”

  “Devlin! He’s an old man!” Grace wavered between horror and confusion. “He’s one of us.”

  “Not unless you’re a murderer, Mother. And he’s not as infirm as he puts on.” Devlin plucked the glasses off Osgood’s face and looked through them. A minor correction only. He chunked them aside. “What about the hair?” he asked. “Is it shoe polish?”

  “Nothing so crude.” Osgood looked into Devlin’s eyes, unafraid, slightly contemptuous. “Are you going to snap my neck? Because it’s getting damned uncomfortable up here on my tippy toes.”

  Devlin jerked his hand away. “No. I’m not going to kill you.” He went to the security alarm and pushed it.

  Osgood massaged his throat. He put his hand to his mouth, held it there a moment, then cleared his throat. “Coward.”

  Two security guards appeared in the doorway.

  “Take Mr. Hopkins into custody.” Devlin hesitated, remembering Gabriel’s doubts about his people, remembering, too, the reports about Hopkins’s long reach and shadowy background. “We’ll need more people.” He picked up the house phone and dialed Gabriel. With a few brief words he filled him in on the situation. When he hung up, he said, “Gabe’s going to call the police and the FBI.”

  “Do you think that will be enough firepower to keep me?” Mr. Hopkins mocked him, but the old guy looked a little pale and sweaty.

  Good. He was worried.

  “Osgood. What the hell is wrong with you?” Bradley snapped. “You’re acting very oddly.”

  Osgood looked at Bradley. “Am I?”

  “You sound peculiar.” Bradley searched Osgood’s face with his gaze. He took a step forward. “My God. Who are you?”

  “‘What are you?’ would be a better question.” Devlin glanced upstairs. He wanted to follow Meadow. He wanted to crawl, to explain that they would not be copies of Bradley and Isabelle. They would be themselves, Devlin and Meadow, in love forever.

  But he wasn’t going to leave Osgood until someone got here whom he completely trusted.

  “Mr. Osgood, are you well?” Grace asked in alarm.

  Osgood pulled at his bow tie. “Perhaps . . . not.” The sweat was a slick sheen all over his face now, and when he shed his jacket, the armpits were stained.

  Grace started toward him.

  Devlin caught her arm. “No. Don’t go near him. He’s dangerous.”

  “Could I have a chair?” Osgood asked.

  One of the security guards started forward, but before he could reach Osgood, Osgood groped behind him, then collapsed in a heap. He clawed at his arm, his chest.

  “Heart attack.” Bradley massaged his own chest.

  “I don’t believe it,” Devlin said. The old guy was faking it.

  “Honestly, Devlin. Look at him!” Grace said.

  Osgood turned blue as he tried to get his breath.

  So he wasn’t faking it. But this was suspiciously convenient. “Are you okay, Mr. Benjamin?” Devlin asked. “Mother, help Mr. Benjamin to sit down.”

  Grace took Bradley’s arm and took him back to his leather chair, then stood there and patted his hand until he snatched it back.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” One security guard headed for the phone.

  The other guard shed his coat. “I’m CPR certified.”

  Gabriel walked in, took in the situation with one glance, and turned to Devlin. “What happened?”

>   “I think he took something. He put his hand up to his mouth, then cleared his throat.” Devlin watched Osgood spasm.

  Hands on hips, Gabriel nodded. “Good probability. That’s pretty impressive, that he’d rather die than be arrested.”

  “Ambulance is on the way.” The report from the guard was terse. “Everyone will hold their position until he’s gone.”

  “You’re seeing the hotel’s emergency plan at work,” Gabriel told Devlin. “In case there’s a scheme to rescue him.”

  “Right.” In the distance, Devlin heard the wail of sirens.

  Emergency personnel poured into the hotel, took charge of Mr. Hopkins, stabilized him, and put him on a gurney.

  Devlin and Gabriel followed them out of the library.

  Sam stood by the open front door. “I’ll ride with him.”

  Devlin lifted his eyebrows. Interesting. Apparently today was a day for all kinds of revelations. “Why should my secretary ride with such a dangerous man?”

  “I’m federal agent Sam Mallery. Catching Mr. Hopkins is the reason I’m here.” Sam walked out onto the porch, keeping the gurney in sight.

  In key places around the yard, security personnel stood at the ready. Gabriel went to talk to the team leader.

  Devlin wasn’t letting Sam off with revealing so little information. “A federal agent? What is a federal agent doing working for me as my secretary?”

  Sam pulled a small, efficient pistol from his holster inside his jacket and scanned the area. “We’ve known about Mr. Hopkins for years—he controls crime in Atlanta and most of the state of Georgia. We couldn’t get a handle on who he was; talking to people in Atlanta got us a lot of information about his voice, about what they thought he might look like, but nothing concrete. He was a ghost. A very efficient, highly corrupt ghost. Then his influence started to edge north, toward South Carolina, and that gave me a lead.” Sam never looked at Devlin; he kept his gaze on the emergency people, on the security guards, and most of all, on Mr. Hopkins. “I heard he collected art. He’s one of those ubiquitous ‘private collectors’ you always hear about right after the museum loses a Picasso. That led me to a solid rumor that Waldemar hid an undiscovered masterpiece, and that led me to my career as your secretary.”

  “You’re a damned good secretary for a federal agent.” Devlin supposed this meant he didn’t need to investigate Sam.

  “Had to be. That’s how I earned my way through school.”

  Fascinating. “Did you suspect Osgood?”

  “I suspected everyone.”

  “Except me.” Devlin enjoyed the irony of that.

  The EMTs were loading Osgood into the ambulance.

  “And then only because I knew what you were doing with your time.” Sam walked down the stairs and waited for them to finish strapping Osgood and his gurney in place. “Also, Mrs. Fitzwilliam—or rather, Natalie Szarvas—was too young to be Mr. Hopkins. I did realize, though, that she was searching for the painting, and that put her in danger. That’s why I had her locked in the closet by one of my agents.”

  “What?” What? What the hell kind of game had Sam been playing?

  “I wanted her gone. I as good as told her to leave. I thought that if she told you what sounded like a crazy story about how she got locked in by a strange maid, and I told you she had locked herself in—and I had a tape to back up my accusations”—Sam grimaced like a man with resources—“you’d throw her out. But you never asked to see the tape. It was too late for me to step between you. You were already in love.”

  It was almost a knee-jerk reaction. “Not in love. Not then.”

  Sam climbed into the ambulance and perched on the seat beside Osgood’s prone body. “From the first moment you looked into her eyes.”

  35

  The ambulance hit potholes. Osgood felt like crap, but just as it was supposed to, the drug was wearing off. He jolted along. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide and unfocused. The federal agent sat beside the gurney, his pistol out, his expression still and tense.

  Smart man.

  Osgood waited . . . waited.

  The wheels struck the pavement. The ride smoothed out.

  And the ambulance slammed to a stop.

  Before Sam had finished coming to his feet, the back doors whipped open. Two men stood pointing Uzis into the back.

  Ah, it was good to have a contingency plan, as well as a contact with the local police who set that plan in motion.

  Osgood freed himself from the restraints. He lifted himself up onto his elbows.

  Sam looked to the front. The assistant driver had a pistol pointed at the driver.

  The EMT on the other side of Osgood held a pistol on Sam, too, and handed Osgood a bottle of water—and the antidote.

  Slowly Sam sat back, put his pistol down, and lifted his hands.

  “Very wise, Mr. Mallery.” Osgood swallowed the pill. He allowed the EMT to give him a hand onto the road. He dusted off his jacket, nodded to Sam, and walked to the waiting black car. Just before his men shut the door behind him, he heard the sound of the pistol as it fired.

  He hoped it was one of his men killing the driver or Sam.

  But he didn’t really care.

  When Devlin reentered the house, he saw Meadow.

  Her tears had dried up. She held the phone as if it were a grenade. She was pale, but perfectly composed. She flicked a glance at Devlin, a glance that observed and dismissed him. She walked into the library.

  Devlin followed.

  Grace stood looking out the window.

  Bradley Benjamin still sat in the chair, staring into space. He’d just been revealed as a fool, betrayed for years . . . by his old friend.

  Meadow wobbled as she stood there, but her gaze steadied on Bradley Benjamin. “I talked to my father. My mother’s back in the Hutchison Cancer Institute in Seattle.”

  Devlin put his arm around her, supporting her.

  She didn’t notice. All her attention was on Bradley. “She needs a bone-marrow transplant. I’ve already been tested. I don’t match enough markers. But you might.”

  Bradley Benjamin stood. He looked around. “Me? Why would I match?”

  “Because you’re her father.” Her tone was flat, no-nonsense.

  “I am not her father.” His faded eyes flashed. “In case you never heard the story—”

  “I heard the real story.” Meadow tapped her chest. “I know the truth. When I was eight and my grandmother got sick, she told me.”

  “That sounds just like Isabelle. Regale an eight-year-old with the story of her affairs, like they were something to be proud of.” Bradley’s voice shook with scorn.

  “She didn’t tell me about her affairs. She told me about you.” And obviously Isabelle had been none too kind. “She told me she loved you, but you made her miserable with your rules and your functions.”

  “She was inappropriate,” Bradley said, as if that were a crime.

  “She was real. When she had my mom, you and your dictates got worse—she was supposed to give up her art and become the right wife and the right kind of mother, as defined by you.” Meadow’s scorn was as lively as Bradley’s. “When you came to her and accused her of infidelity, she couldn’t believe you would think such a thing.”

  “Her affairs were legion.” Bradley’s teeth barely separated, and his lips were stiff.

  “After you divorced her!” Meadow took a breath, and with all the conviction in her slight body, said, “She was faithful to you. You’re my grandfather. My biological grandfather. My mother is your daughter.”

  “Whoa,” Devlin whispered. He had never imagined this.

  Meadow swiveled. She looked him in the eye. “It’s true.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute, my love.” How could he? The evidence stood before his eyes.

  Meadow was a blend of grandmother and grandfather, mother and father, and an essence all her own.

  Bradley trembled like a leaf in a gale. “That’s twaddle. Isabelle
told me she’d slept with that artist.”

  “No.” Meadow walked to the couch. She bent, dug among the cushions, and pulled out a silver key, one to match the key that opened the secret garden. She lifted it, showed it to Bradley on her outstretched palm. “You had the garden cleaned up for her. You loved her. You’d had a child with her. She thought you trusted her. Then you accused her of sleeping with Bjorn Kelly. She agreed because she didn’t want to live with a man who knew and valued her so little.”

  Bradley stood straight, his hands lax at his sides.

  Devlin could see the thoughts racing across his mind, the incredulity, the possibility. . . . Devlin was willing to bet the old guy refused to believe Meadow, because if he did, his whole, bitter life was a waste.

  Apparently Meadow thought the same thing, because she closed her hand over the key. She made a fist. “Look. It’s a simple test. You provide a little DNA and you find out I’m telling the truth. Then you go to Seattle, donate the bone marrow, and save your daughter’s life.”

  Bradley still didn’t speak.

  “You don’t have to. But this is my mother we’re talking about, so let me tell you what I’m willing to do to make you comply. I’ll drag up the old scandal about Grandmother and you, and how you threw her and her child out without a dime. I’ll sue you for what remains of your fortune, and I’ll ruin what remains of your life.” Meadow sounded cold. Meadow sounded ruthless. Meadow sounded like . . . Bradley.

  “My God,” Grace whispered. She looked between Bradley and Meadow. “My God.”

  “The alternative is a simple operation to harvest your bone marrow,” Meadow said. “You’ll be saving a life. Your daughter’s life.”

  At last Bradley reacted. He staggered backward, fell into the chair.

  “He’s having a heart attack.” Two in one night! Devlin leaped toward him.

  Meadow followed. “He can’t die now!”

  But the old man put his head in his hands and gave a rasping sob.

  Devlin stopped. He backed up.